


Tell it Like it is

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Bars and Pubs, Drinking & Talking, Drinking Games, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, First Kiss, M/M, Post Mary, Sexual Tension, Sexual Themes, Word Games, drunken darts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go out to the pub with some of the officers from Scotland Yard, and once back in 221b, play a word association game. What seems like a harmless game reveals more than either of them intended. Post Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell it Like it is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rads/gifts).



> This fic is my second place giveaway prize for [fuckyeahjohnlockfluff](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfluff.tumblr.com)
> 
> My giveaway was because my fic [The Effect of Memory](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1773439) reaching 10K hits. Thank you readers!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The dust was finally starting to settle, but Sherlock still didn't know how things could possibly go back to what constituted as normal at Baker street, not after all that had happened.

John was moving back in.

At least there was that. Sherlock hadn't a clue what he would have done if John had decided to go stay somewhere else. It was bad enough the first time around, returning after years of tracking down international networks of criminals only to find the only person he found important in his life had moved out, and more importantly, on. But after all this, after shooting Magnussen, nearly getting sent to his death in Serbia, solving the mystery involving Moriarty's return, and after Mary had turned out to not be pregnant after all, and also to be still working for Moriarty's network, after all that, John was coming home.

There was no way that this was going back to normal. Normal was before Sherlock had jumped off a roof. Normal was before John got married to an assassin. Normal was before Sherlock had shot a person in the head. Normal was before John's wife had tried to kill him multiple times.

Normal was drinking tea, and crosswords, and crap telly on Sundays. Sherlock wanted more than anything in the world that he could get that back, to return to the days where they could collapse against the wall in the hallway and giggle after a case. But that just wasn't a realistic expectation. Not anymore. The two of them had too many scars now.

Absentmindedly, Sherlock rubbed a hand over his most recent, the silvery circular scar just over his heart.

The door downstairs opened, and Sherlock heard John coming up the stairs and smiled.

A lot had happened. But he had John back. That was what really mattered in all of this. They were back together again, even after all that had happened. That, in itself, was something of a miracle.

"Fancy going round to the pub with Lestrade and some of the Yarders?" John asked as he entered the flat.

Sherlock really didn't. Pubs were loud, filled with idiots under the influence of varying amounts of alcohol, and served food that was really not for the faint of heart.

John wanted to go. John wanted Sherlock to go too, and so instead of immediately dismissing the idea, Sherlock hesitated.

The stag night was definitely something that Sherlock had a rather vivid memory of.

As it turned out, Sherlock was something of a lightweight. Even consumption of low levels of alcohol on a regular basis did not prepare one for bar-hopping, apparently. But it was with Lestrade, and this time, Sherlock would keep an eye on his own drink and make sure John didn't contaminate it with tequila.

And so, to his own surprise, he heard himself saying, "Okay."

John blinked in surprise and grinned. Sherlock smiled back in return, John's pleased expression all he really needed to confirm that he'd made the right decision. This wasn't going back to normal, exactly, but it was them, together, going out and having fun. He'd like to do that again.

Sherlock made sure to dress casually for the pub. While abroad, he'd learned not to rely too heavily on his bespoke suit and intimidating coat. Dark jeans and a button-up would do.

John's eyes widened when he saw Sherlock emerge from his room, and then got a rather intense look in them. Sherlock was suddenly reminded of what _else_ had happened on the stag night.

Or, as Sherlock liked to call it in his head, the Knee Grope.

It deserved the capitals he gave it in his head. He still had a very intense memory of John's hands, warm and firm, grasping his knee to steady himself. The heated look in John's eyes, and the fact that at any moment, Sherlock could have had a warm, pliant, and pleased John Watson topple between his spread thighs was imprinted on his brain.

And the way John's eyes had gone dark reminded him of that moment.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "Shall we?"

The pub they were going to was just a ten minute and forty-five second walk from Baker street, and the warm summer air meant that his coat was unnecessary. John was walking closer to him than usual, their elbows bumping every now and then.

"This isn't your usual type of entertainment," John said suddenly. "Why did you decide to come? Not that I mind or anything, just curious."

"You would find it fun, correct?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

"I think there are some insights to be had by partaking in this activity," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "It might turn out to be more fun than I imagined it to be."

"Fair enough," John said.

The pub wasn't too crowded, and Lestrade and Donovan were there with a few other Yarders. Sherlock estimated that they were already into their second round, and a couple had already gotten to their third or fourth. Lestrade raised a pint glass at their approach.

"So you got him to come out then?" he asked John. "How'd you manage that?"

"He wanted to come," John said. "I'll get us something to drink."

"No tequila," Sherlock said quickly.

John laughed. "That was just the stag night. Don't worry, I don't want to wake up in the drunk tank again tomorrow morning."

Sherlock took a seat at the table cautiously and watched as John went to get them their pints. Sherlock wasn't a beer drinker, generally, but he did enjoy the odd glass of wine. Wine wasn't a pub drink, so therefore he had to have a beer to fit in.

John set two brown ales on the table in front of them, and Sherlock took a cautious sip. Nutty, somewhat sweet. It wasn't bad, he supposed. He finished it off a lot more quickly than he was expecting to, and John went and bought him another one.

"Come on, Sherlock, we're going to play darts," John said.

Donovan was already standing by the dart board, and Sherlock watched as she sunk a dart into the board, very close to the bullseye mark. She grinned and threw a couple more, both of which came equally close. She collected the darts and handed them off to Lestrade, and he also put them somewhat close to the centre. They weren't playing by the rules, as far as Sherlock could deduce, but he didn't think that was the point anyway.

It turned out the entire squad was somewhat good at darts.

"We should make this into a game," Sherlock suggested.

"A drinking game!" Lestrade said, nodding enthusiastically.

"Not what I meant," Sherlock protested, but no one was listening, too busy making up rules for their new game of drunken darts.

"Anyone who hits outside of this circle will have to drink," John said.

"And anyone who gets it outside of the next one will have to take two!" Donovan said, sounding pleased with herself for coming up with it.

"And if they miss the board altogether, they'll have to drink the entire glass," Anderson added.

Oh dear.

John didn't have to take a drink at all the next round, putting all of his darts in the bulls-eye. Anderson had to take four, and Lestrade three. Donovan also didn't have to take any. Sherlock stepped up the the board, urged on by John. This was definitely an idiotic game, but John was having fun, so there was that.

First one in the bullseye. Second, third... fourth was outside the bullseye. Sherlock took a sip of his drink, as per the rules, and steadied himself for his last shot at the board.

And tripped. Sherlock stumbled, and his dart flew off into some high corner and disappeared. Sherlock squinted after it and saw it stuck next to the exit sign.

"You have to drink the whole glass," Anderson said helpfully as Sherlock stared.

Everyone looked on expectantly, and so, with a hard swallow, Sherlock lifted the glass to his lips, tilted his head back and gulped the remainder of his drink down. Which was most of the pint, actually, because Sherlock wasn't a beer guzzler, and had been drinking as slowly as possible.

"We only have four darts now!" Donovan said. "We have to get that one back."

All the chairs were occupied, and the nearby pool table was moored to the floor anyway. No one was tall enough to just reach up and get it, and even if he was, Sherlock wasn't going to jump up and down trying to get it like an errant schoolboy. 

Sherlock eyed Donovan speculatively and said, "I bet if John and Lestrade lifted you up, you could reach it."

Donovan looked at them and nodded. "Come on, you two."

She arranged them underneath the exit sign, then looked back at Sherlock. 

"Down on one knee here, Holmes," Donovan said, pointing at the floor.

Sherlock calculated that Donovan planned to use his knee and shoulder as a springboard in order to vault onto John and Lestrade's shoulders so that she could reach the dart. Donovan was quite athletic, and Sherlock decided that it would probably work. He did as he was told, too interested in seeing what would happen to complain about her ordering him around.

Donovan backed up a few feet and took a run at it. Sherlock hadn't expected her to do _that_ and made a move to stop her, but it was too late by then. Donovan had launched herself off of Sherlock’s raised knee and Lestrade had had a few too many to catch someone with her forward momentum. John managed admirably, but Lestrade fell over.

Donovan wrapped a leg around John's (thankfully good) shoulder in order to stop herself from falling off. John staggered under her weight, but righted himself by grabbing onto Lestrade, who was just getting up. Lestrade fell over again, and Donovan was pointing at the dart and reaching for it.

"This is very ill-advised," Sherlock said.

"Got it!" Donovan crowed.

And then John tripped, and both he and Donovan toppled backwards onto a pool table. A pool table that was currently in use by what looked like a biker gang. A biker gang that wasn't very pleased that their game had been interrupted.

"You have chlamydia, you're cheating on your wife with that guy, and that guy's secretly a drag queen. Also, half of you are coming off a marijuana high right now. Good marijuana, imported from Canada," Sherlock said, spouting off the information without really thinking about it.

Well, normally, he just didn't care what people thought of his deductions. But even _he_ knew that it wasn't generally advised to imply insult to a bunch of already-enraged thugs. What was wrong with his mouth?

Sherlock was right. The bikers did _not_ like what he had to say.

Both their group and the bikers were thrown out of the pub, but only after they'd made a right mess. Anderson had actually been picked up and thrown onto the bar. It hadn't been until then that they'd all been booted out.

John and Sherlock ran all the way home laughing. They'd done pretty well, all things considered. Lestrade was going to have to explain a black eye at work tomorrow, and Donovan had sprained her wrist, but Sherlock and John had gotten off rather easy on the injury front.

Sherlock looked at his knuckles contemplatively and sucked on the one that was bleeding the most.

"I'll bandage that up for you," John said. "Who knew you were such a scrapper?"

"Used to box," Sherlock said.

"You did?" John asked in surprise. "When?"

"University," Sherlock said. "I stopped after I graduated."

"Huh," John said musingly. "Why do you always make me fight the criminals then?"

"You look better while doing it," Sherlock replied.

They got back to 221b and tumbled up the stairs. 

"I've got some bourbon we should finish off," John said. "Up in the cupboard. You go get that and some glasses, and I'll get the first aid kit."

Sherlock found the bourbon, and two glasses, although seeing as the only two clean receptacles he could find were a teacup and a shotglass, he thought they might be in for an interesting night. John came back and poured them both some bourbon without commenting on his choice of cup. He sat by Sherlock on the couch, opened the safety kit, and took the closest of Sherlock’s hands.

"Ouch," Sherlock complained as John used a cotton ball and rubbing alcohol to clean his cuts.

"Shh," John said. "You'll be fine."

Sherlock knew that, having had much more grievous injuries than shredded knuckles. He just liked complaining. He made a few more grumbling whines as John finished cleaning out the injuries. John just hummed and started wrapping gauze around his knuckles. Once he'd finished, he surveyed his completed work with satisfaction.

"There!" he proclaimed, then reached for both his hands and brought the bandaged knuckles up to his mouth, placing a kiss on each one.

Sherlock blinked and stared. "What was that for?"

"Kissing them better," John said. "What, did your Mum never kiss your owies better?"

"She did..." Sherlock said. "But I was about five."

"You still act about five at times," John said, and grinned.

"Do not!" Sherlock protested.

John gave him a pointed look. Sherlock scowled in return and took a sip of his bourbon. He accidentally took a larger gulp than he meant to and ended up coughing and sputtering as some of it went down the wrong way.

"Right," John said. "Shall we... ah, shall we play a game?"

"Cluedo?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"God no," John said, looking to where the Cluedo board was still, even after all this time, pinned to the wall with a knife.

"Fine," Sherlock said, crossing his arms. "What then?"

"Let's play..." John squinted as he tried to come up with something. "Never have I ever."

"That's a kid's game, John." Sherlock said with an eyeroll. "I'm 36."

"Did you ever play it when you were a kid?" asked John.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Anyway, I played it more in uni, at parties," John said with a laugh. "Learned some very interesting things about some people when we did that. Like, did you know, Mike Stamford has never had a one night stand?"

"You mean he hadn't at the time?" Sherlock said.

"Well, I did ask him at one point after we got back, and he said he still hadn't," John said. "Anyway, in uni, it's a drinking game. So, if you've done it, you take a drink."

Sherlock sighed. "So, if it's not played like the kid's game, where whoever gets to ten fingers last wins, then when does it end?"

"The last person left standing," John said. "But you know, winning wasn't really the point. The point was to find out as much goss as possible about your mates to use against them in the future."

"Let me guess, most of it was of a sexual nature?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, yeah." John shrugged. "It doesn't have to be that way now. We can just ask about each other's lives or whatever we like."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "You go first."

He could tell this was a transparent attempt on John's part to find out more about his past. He would let him ask, in the hopes that maybe this would bridge some of the cavernous gap that had grown between them in his absence. John could have just asked, like a normal person. But of course, he had to pretend it was a game in order to actually do it.

"Never have I ever owned a dog," John said.

Sherlock took a drink. "Really, never? Not even as a boy?"

"Nope, wasn't allowed one," John said. "I wanted one. I really wanted an English bulldog, but by the time I got out of school, I'd decided to join the army."

"I had a dog named Redbeard," Sherlock said. "An Irish setter. He was my only friend."

They went back and forth for a while. Sherlock found out that John had never broken a bone, gone to Australia (full of poison things John), set himself on fire (it was _one_ time John!), or climbed a mountain, but he had once eaten worms to stop his sister from going fishing. Sherlock, on the other hand, strategically used the fact he knew that John had a doctorate, had been to Kandahar (Pakistan is close to Afghanistan, but doesn't count, I said specifically Kandahar and not the Middle East, John), and had played rugby in university against him.

"Never have I ever kissed a dominatrix," John said, grinning triumphantly.

"First of all, I haven't kissed a dominatrix. Second of all, yes you have. The one with the spots. She left very characteristic bruising patterns on you after you'd slept together. Probably also why that relationship didn't work out. You wanted to dominate as well, and your forceful bedroom personalities clashed. Neither of you is a switch," Sherlock said.

"Oh," John looked thoughtful and said, "that makes sense, now that I think about it. What do you mean, I thought you... and Irene Adler..."

"I... I never did kiss her," Sherlock said. "Not my area, remember? Just because she was interested didn't mean I was."

"But she was very aggressive in her chasing," John said. "I thought you had at least kissed once."

"No, not even close," Sherlock said with a laugh. "In fact, the last time I saw her, she left me stranded naked in a desert."

"She what?" John asked, sitting up in surprise.

"It's true, and after all that effort I used to rescue her from being beheaded," Sherlock said.

"So she's not dead," John said.

"No," Sherlock said. "So is this taking a turn for the more sexual then?"

"I suppose it is," John said. "It doesn't have to."

"Never have I ever kissed anyone in the British Armed Forces."

John drank, frowned, and poured himself some more bourbon. They had both gone through quite a lot of liquor by that point, more than Sherlock thought was advisable.

"Never have I ever slept with someone who worked for a broadcasting company," John said.

Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't sleep with Janine, if that's what you meant."

"You didn't?" John gaped. "But you dated for like a month!"

"Fake dated," Sherlock corrected. "Never have I ever shagged anyone in a public toilet."

John grimaced and drank. "Never have I ever fake dated anyone."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and drank. "I gave you that one."

"Too bad," John chimed in.

"Never have I ever taken anyone's virginity," Sherlock shot back.

John drank and scowled back at him. "Unfair! Just because my first girlfriend had never slept with anyone before."

"Well, yes, I figured that someone who first had sex at fifteen probably had," Sherlock said.

"How did you... never mind," John said. "Wait, when did you lose yours?"

"That's not a 'Never have I ever' question," Sherlock protested.

"Never have I ever lost my virginity before I was fifteen," John said.

"Never have I ever had sex with a woman!" Sherlock said hurriedly.

John drank. "Never have I ever lost my virginity _after_ I was fifteen."

"Never have I ever committed an act of sexual voyeurism," Sherlock said quickly.

John drank again. "So either we both lost our virginity at age fifteen, or... Never have I ever _been_ a virgin after I was fifteen."

Sherlock pinked and downed the rest of his bourbon. "Never have I ever given anyone a blowjob."

John froze in surprise. Then slowly, raised his shot glass and drank the remaining bourbon. Sherlock hadn't expected to score off of that one, had simply intended to make John as uncomfortable as he was feeling. The silence was deafening as they both looked at the empty bottle of bourbon, which had been almost half full at the beginning of the night.

"I think we should switch games," John said. 

"Agreed," Sherlock said carefully.

They had both been rather more honest than first intended. Sherlock looked down at his folded hands, avoiding John's eyes. Mycroft had implied to John at one point that Sherlock was a virgin, and back then, John had dismissed this information as ridiculous. Reaching the age of 32 as a virgin was almost unheard of, and among their age group at least, seen as something to be embarrassed by. 

But this was very interesting information. John had, by his own admittance, given somebody a blowjob. Of course, that person could have been a trans woman, but John's reaction suggested that was not the case. Who had it been? Somebody in the army? Now that Sherlock knew that, he wondered if John had ever slept with a man.

"Let's play a word association game," John said, rubbing his hands together.

"And what does that entail?" Sherlock asked neutrally.

"One of us says a word, and the other says the first word that pops into their head," John says. "We can go back and forth. We should try and go as fast as possible and see where we end up."

"Sort of like hot potato," Sherlock said. "Alright then. We'll start off easy. Night."

"Day." Easy.

"Sun."

"Radiation."

"Microwave" 

"Eyes" John must be thinking of the eyeballs Sherlock had left there yesterday.

"Blue." John's eyes, of course. Perfectly blue and fathomless, like...

"Water." Not quite what Sherlock had been thinking.

"Ocean," Sherlock finished, because that's what John's eyes looked like.

"Ship."

"Pirate." Oh, gave away his childhood dream of piracy. John probably wouldn't notice.

"Captain." John.

"John," he accidentally said out loud.

"Me," John said. "Ah, I don't think we can carry on."

"No," Sherlock said. "Otherwise it would be a continuous circle of me saying 'John' and you saying 'me.'"

"Okay, we'll have to start again. My turn," John said with a grin. "Mycroft."

"Cake." Obvious.

"Birthday."

"Clowns."

"Horror films."

"That's two words," Sherlock interrupted.

"I think you should be able to say two words if it accurately describes what first comes to your mind," John argued. "It's not a full thought if I just say 'horror.' Or 'film.' Clowns bring to mind horror films, and only those two words together will do."

"Are you one of those people who are afraid of clowns, John?" Sherlock asked, grinning.

"I'm not afraid," John said. "They're just creepy. Ugh, gives me the heeby-jeebies."

"Creepy," Sherlock said.

"Gothic," John said.

"Victorian," Sherlock replied, wondering if John often read or watched Gothic books or films.

"Uptight," John replied, smiling.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock laughed again. "We've come full circle."

"All's Mycroft that ends Mycroft," John chortled in return. "Okay, since we've ended up with both myself and Mycroft, maybe we should start with Lestrade."

"Police," Sherlock said. "Obvious."

"Handcuffs," John said.

"Dominatrix," Sherlock said, and then blushed. That wasn't supposed to come out.

"Irene Adler," John said.

"Two words again, John!" Sherlock sang. "Pakistan."

"Afghanistan," John said.

"Really, John?"

"It has a 'stan' ending too!" John giggled.

"Sholto," Sherlock said.

To his surprise, John blushed and his lips went tight.

"I, uh," he said. "That is, I... erm."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John's blush continued to suffuse his face, right up to the tips of his ears, which glowed like beacons. It was fascinating to watch, and it almost distracted Sherlock from the information he was learning from this.

Almost, but not quite.

"Should I guess which word came to your mind?" Sherlock asked.

"Please don't," John said, and buried his face in his hands.

Sherlock wanted to say "blowjob," but refrained, even as the urge to say it tugged at his lips. Because the way John reacted wasn't in fear, or anger, or sadness. He was acting embarrassed, which meant that the memory he was associating it with wasn't something traumatic, or that reminded him of violent war memories. It was something that he would rather not share with anyone.

But he might as well strike while the iron was hot, so to speak.

"Sherlock," he said.

"My darling," John said.

And then they stopped again. Time seemed to freeze as John's eyes widened in horror, and Sherlock's breath caught in his chest and became almost painful in trying to escape again.

"That's... that's two words again," Sherlock finally choked out.

"Yeah, well," John said in a funny, half-hysterical sort of way. "Like I said, if something can't be described accurately in one word, you should be able to use two."

"Darling wouldn't have sufficed?" Sherlock asked, hardly believing they were even having this conversation.

"Darling?" John laughed, voice still more high-pitched than normally. "You're not everyone's darling. Only I'm daft enough to describe you that way. Sweetheart would have worked just as well, I suppose."

"What about just 'mine?'" Sherlock asked. "That... that would have worked."

"Too possessive and presumptuous," John said. "Sounds like I'm trying to own you. Something slightly softer is more my style."

"I... wouldn't have minded," Sherlock said, and shivered in a way that had nothing to do with being cold.

"I didn't realize," John said faintly. "So..."

The two of them stared at each other tentatively. Sherlock still wasn't processing the information. Was "darling" something romantic, or could that still be seen as platonic? Sherlock wished he had his (or John's) laptop to look it up, but he couldn't even move. John was still flushed up to his ears, and Sherlock felt rather hot in the face himself.

"Now what?" Sherlock finally asked.

He suddenly became aware that they were still sitting close together on the couch, and every inch seemed like miles, but at the same time, close enough that the surface of his skin tingled. John looked up at him through his eyelashes, and Sherlock felt his heart jump in response. John was far too attractive to look at Sherlock like that.

"I..." John licked his lips, and his eyes dropped to Sherlock's mouth. "We should talk about this."

"Yes," Sherlock said, already magnetized and moving closer.

"Yeah, right after I..." John mumbled, his lips so close that Sherlock felt his exhale on his skin.

John reached up and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, and he let out a soft whine almost too quiet to hear.

"Shh," John whispered against his mouth. "I've got you, darling."

Sherlock's cheeks burned at the word, at John using it to describe him, he was both completely mortified and absurdly delighted by it. John's nose brushed against his, and then John's mouth found his. Sherlock's hands came up and clutched at John's shoulders. 

This kiss was so different than the one he had shared with Janine. Objectively, Janine's mouth was fuller and softer than John's, but kissing Janine had felt mechanical and void of emotion. Sherlock had calculated every angle of attack, where he should put his hands, what his face should look like when they drew back, John's reaction in the background.

Sherlock's entire focus shrunk down to where John's mouth was pressing against his. There was no calculating or thinking his way through this. Sherlock thought he might die if John didn't just keep doing this forever. Breathing was less necessary than John's mouth on his.

As if sensing his thought process, John pulled away, and Sherlock gasped for breath.

"You want this," John said, sounding surprised and awed.

Sherlock trembled and pulled him back in so that he could forget the world all over again. John grinned against his mouth, and Sherlock embedded the feel of it in his Mind Palace. They kissed for ages, and by the time Sherlock drew away, his chest was heaving and his mouth was tender.

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's collarbone, and John kissed his hair, and his temple, and the arch of his brow. Now that he wasn't kissing John, he found that his shirt had come untucked from his jeans, and somehow, he was leaning back into the couch with John overtop of him.

"Oh, you're gorgeous," John murmured against his hair. "My beautiful darling."

Sherlock flushed and hid his face against John's shoulder. John laughed lightly and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body. They were curled up together impossibly, and Sherlock couldn't tell how they fit so well intertwined. It was a lot more comfortable than he had imagined it being.

"We really should talk about this," John said softly, breath brushing over the shell of his ear.

"What's there to talk about?" Sherlock asked.

As far as Sherlock was concerned, this was perfect. Now he could kiss John whenever he liked, and if John was grumpy because of eyeballs in the fridge or forgetting to go get milk, then Sherlock could just kiss him and distract him.

"What do you want from this?" John asked. His hand found its way under the edge of Sherlock's shirt, and stroked his back. 

"I thought it was obvious," Sherlock said, in a slight endorphin daze from being so close to John, and his warmth, and delicious John scent. "I want you to stay with me as long as possible."

"Romantically?" John pressed, arms tightening around him.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, and nuzzled his nose against John's neck. "I thought the kissing made it clear."

"Well, you know, a kiss can mean romance... or it can mean... um, more lust-fuelled things..." John flushed.

"John, I'm a man who has retained his sexual innocence to his third decade. I think you can safely say that this is not about sex," Sherlock said dryly.

"Oh, okay," John said, then paused. "So... do you not..."

Sherlock blushed hotly and stammered, "Well, since it's – it's you... I... wouldn't be. Opposed. To such a thing taking place. Eventually."

If someone had asked Sherlock before he'd met John what he thought of relationships or sex, he would have told them that it was useless, illogical, and not for him. But now that he was here, he found that he really wouldn't mind finding out if he enjoyed that sort of contact. He was certainly enjoying the snuggling, something else he hadn't thought was necessary.

"I guess we'll see," John said. "But this –" he tightened his arms around Sherlock, "this I could get used to."

"Agreed," Sherlock sighed.

Sherlock didn't know where this was going. It was easy to say he wanted them to stay together for life, but what did that mean? They already lived together, paid the bills together, solved cases together, and had fun together. Sherlock wondered if maybe that meant they would begin to sleep together, move into one room together, or even perhaps make love together.

Maybe John would finally say, "We're together" instead of "I'm not his date."

All the possibilities laid themselves out before him in his Mind Palace, and Sherlock wanted to go find the end of all those paths, calculate them, decide which one to take so that this all turned out perfectly. There had to be a correct sequence for something like that. And after all, this wasn't a video game, or one of those choose-your-adventure books, where you could go back and change your previous action. If he messed up, he couldn't go back and fix it.

"You're thinking too much," John said.

"I just want this to work out," Sherlock said. "How do you guarantee that?"

"You can't," John said. "But we can try our hardest to make things work. And I know you, and you know me, as well as any two people can know one another. We have to trust one another, and if something happens, we have to work together to fix it."

"Together," Sherlock said, and leaned up to kiss John.

They were doing this together, whatever it was. Sherlock had to remember this, above all else, that he wasn't doing this alone anymore. 

Sherlock's scientific brain wanted to cry out in terror, that adding John to the equation doubled the variables and made their path forward even harder to calculate. John's hand slid through his hair, and Sherlock sighed, shuddered, and closed his eyes.

Sherlock would just have to accept that love wasn't something he could calculate.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com)


End file.
